The Diner
by Sanctuaria
Summary: "Just a cup of tea to start, thank you," replies the woman. "Earl Grey if you have it." The accent throws her for a second, English and authentic. Little did Angie know at that moment that the mysterious woman she'd just befriended was much more—much, much more—than she appeared. One-shot.


**Hi all! Agent Carter's premiere was amazing last night, so I thought I'd provide a minute contribution to the small but growing body of work that it's gotten in the 24 hours since it went on air. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>The Diner<strong>

It's ten thirty, and she's about to be late for work. The lights of New York City have just faded into the backdrop of the great blue sky, no longer glowing on the buildings like little arranged stars but not so faded that they are lost between the pearly clouds and the bright sun reflecting off the wet cobblestones. Ahead of her, the street is bustling—men with suits and ties and briefcases, young women headed off to work carrying umbrellas they won't need without another storm cloud in the sky, school boys playing catch in the alleys with blackened hands from the damp pavement, and cars chugging their way forward on streets crowded with both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. She joins the flood hurrying across the street, stuffed white handbag weighing heavily on her left arm. Someone jostles her and she hears a, "Sorry, miss," but before she can even catch a glimpse of his face he's disappeared into the crowd again. She can't even hear the click-click of her inch-too-high heels on the pavement over the throng, although she's forcibly reminded of them as her right catches slightly in a sidewalk crack.

Despite the crowds, despite the congestion, despite the bits of trash in the street and the occasional stench from the sewers at night, she loves this city. She loves the liveliness, that there's never a dull moment to be had. She loves the buildings reaching high into the sky, the million different scents that fill her nose as she passes by the shops, the faint but unique blend of cigarette smoke, coffee beans, and car exhaust that seems to permeate everything. There's a clip-clopping sound passing by her, and she doesn't even need to look to know that there's a horse-drawn carriage gliding by, still a common sight on the streets and to her one of the most amazing representations of the fusion of the new and the old. Flags drape out of second-story windows in all of their red-white-and-blue splendor, fluttering triumphantly in the breeze as they have been since V-J Day. The Second World War has just ended, they have won, and New York is flourishing, well on its way to becoming the economic and cultural center of the Western world. And she's in the thick of it.

She spots her workplace up ahead, putting on an extra burst of speed. The bell jingles above her head as she pushes open the door. "Mr. McCloskey, I'm sorry I'm late," she says hurriedly. Her boss looks her up and down, impatience in his eyes.

"You'll have to stay a bit late today to make up for it, Angie," he tells her. He gestures to the back of the small diner, towards the bathroom. "You'd better get changed quickly and hurry out here, now."

"I will," Angie promises, hastening to do as he says. She enters the ladies' room through a swinging door and peers under the stalls to find an empty one. They all are.

She clicks the lock into position behind her and sets her handbag on the floor beside the toilet. Stripping down quickly, she replaces her high heels with a pair of shorter ones that will be more comfortable to be on her feet in and her knee-length red dress with her yellow-and-green waitress uniform. The dress, with its deeper neckline and shimmery fabric, glitters in the light as she folds it delicately into her bag on top of the heels. When Angie emerges from the stall, she heads directly to one of the sinks and stares into the mirror. She wipes her scarlet lipstick off with a disposable handkerchief and replaces it with one three shades less severe. Well aware of the imaginary ticking clock, she unclasps the silver necklace with faux pearls from her throat, dropping it and her hoop earrings into a small case. She ties her hair back slightly, fluffs it slightly from her walk, and dons the waitress cap, securing it with two pins.

"I liked you dressed better how you were before," one of the patrons at the booths jeers as she walks out of the bathroom and by his table, but she ignores him. She stuffs her bag into her cubby back near the kitchen and returns to the diner floor once again.

"Where were you, on Broadway, sweetheart? Did all that glitter and jazz make you forget how to pour coffee? 'Cause my cup's empty," another one says. She can't help but flush slightly.

"I'm sorry," she lies with false sweetness as she walks to his table with the coffee jug. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

The beady eyes staring out of his pudgy face rake her up and down. "Not unless you can come out here and dance for us in that dress." He guffaws with the first man, evidently very pleased with himself for that statement.

Angie stiffens, jaw locking. "Anything _off the menu_?"

He shakes his head, belly bouncing as he shares his mirth with his newfound friend. He drains his mug quickly and thankfully they leave together. Thank God they aren't regulars.

She buses his table, amusing herself by noting to herself the three pie plates and the many empty packets of sugar sitting next to his mug. She also notes the scant tip he left behind.

She _had_ been on Broadway, for the record, she thinks to herself. Auditioning for it, anyway. And even though her lucky break hadn't come today, she's sure it will soon. It is another thing she loves about New York—it's a city of limitless possibility, despite the couple of jerks living in its population.

She delivers a plate of pancakes that have just come off the griddle and then surveys the rest of the tables, making sure there isn't anyone else able to complain about an empty coffee mug.

The automat isn't very large, but it manages to fit a lot of booths without making anything feel crowded. On the walls are individual slots labeled with prices, housing for purchase pies, muffins, and the like. One end of the main counter is obscured by a stack of menus with items patrons can order fresh from the kitchen. The walls are painted a friendly yellow and green color scheme, matching her uniform exactly.

Currently seated in the left-most booth of the diner is a no-nonsense business man in a dark suit. Angie imagines that he's a partner at a large law firm in the city, and that he only comes to this place because of its proximity to his subway stop and perhaps the delicious pecan pie. She enjoys making up the stories behind her customers as she works, cutting away the boredom and monotony of her job. The regular at the next table over she fancies as a long-time New Yorker whose wife had fallen in love with the quaint little French bakery that the automat had taken over during the dark days of the depression. After she died he began to visit more often in order to feel a connection to her. He's a crotchety, white-haired man with a raspy voice and a trembling in his fingers, but he always has a smile for Angie when she comes around to refill his coffee and he never skimps on her tip.

A woman catches her eye. She's sitting alone, straight-backed, very properly, and she has one of their menus open in front of her. She has brown hair full of curls, and, in Angie's decidedly less-than-expert opinion, the legs of a Broadway star. She wears a black skirt and an impeccable white blouse with poise.

This isn't the first time she's seen this woman. She's here often, at least four times a week, but never this early. Usually by the time Angie's shift starts she's had her meal already and is reading the paper or staring out the window, across the street. She leaves soon after that. They've never spoken, and Angie has yet to create a story for her. Nothing seems to fit quite right.

"Can I get you something?" Angie asks, moving to stand at the edge of her table with notepad in hand.

"Just a cup of tea to start, thank you," replies the woman. "Earl Grey if you have it." The accent throws her for a second, English and authentic.

"Coming right up," Angie manages to respond. The woman who always sits alone has become even more mysterious with this turn of events. An English accent on a white-collar, working woman... One who, with her customary stares into the distance, Angie has always judged as having a slight melancholy air to her.

Back in the kitchen, she has to put a new pot on the stove, but she returns with the tea no more than a few minutes later and the woman thanks her graciously. She appears to be ready for breakfast, so Angie scribbles down her order. "You did look nice earlier, in that dress," the woman says, and Angie startles. "Despite what those men were saying. You were quite stunning."

"Thank you," she replies.

The woman smiles. "You've got a little smudge of lipstick, right there..." She demonstrates with her own finger. "Just a tad. There, you got it."

"Thanks," Angie says again. The woman's friendly if aloof demeanor keeps her from feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable.

The woman tilts her head slightly, as if listening to something, and then asks, "Might you turn that off please?"

It takes Angie a moment to identify what she's talking about. "Oh, the radio? Sure thing." She twists the knob and the over-enthusiastic voices of _The Captain America Adventure Program_ fade out of existence. "Did you lose someone in the war?" The question's out there before she thinks it through, and she can't take it back no matter how impulsive or prying it might sound.

Thankfully, the woman doesn't seem to mind. A slight smile returns to her lips. "How could you tell?"

"Well, you're the first person to ask to have that stupid radio show turned off since it started broadcasting a few weeks ago, and you come in here a lot by yourself," Angie answers honestly.

"I didn't realize I was that obvious. But yes, I lost someone, of a sort."

"That's rough," Angie says sympathetically. She glances around to see if the boss is anywhere in sight—he isn't, probably gone out for a smoke—and slips into the booth opposite the woman.

"I'm Peggy," the woman introduces herself. "I work at the New York Bell Company just down the street."

"Angie," she replies. "I work at the L&L Automat."

"No, _really_," Peggy teases.

"But I'm not one for first names," Angie continues, "I prefer nicknames. How about…English? For your accent. It's beautiful."

"I suppose that'll do," Peggy smiles.

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><p>Little did Angie Martinelli know at that moment that the mysterious woman she'd just befriended was much more—much, much more—than she could have ever imagined.<p>

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it! Feedback is much appreciated :)<strong>


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